


It is Better to Beg Forgiveness

by pt_tucker



Series: Calculated Risk [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Sherlock, Date Rape (Without the Date), Drugged Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Obsessive Sherlock, Sherlock Being Creepy, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2180298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/pseuds/pt_tucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happened was an accident. Well, as far as purposefully drugging your older brother and then purposefully violating him whilst he slept could be called an accident, at any rate. All Sherlock could say with certainty is that he had not <em>planned</em> to molest Mycroft. That had to count for something, surely?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It is Better to Beg Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this. Yes, I did. Yeeeep.
> 
> Anyway, it's unbeta'd so if anyone would like to volunteer, that'd be awesome! Or feel free to point out any mistakes you might see in the comments.

"It is a matter of national security."

"Isn't it always?" Sherlock responded. 

He gave his brother a look that would have signified to anyone else how utterly _bored_ he was, thereby deeming the current topic of conversation closed. Unfortunately, Mycroft had the tendency of stubbornly ignoring him until he was forced from the premises by violent screeching from his violin. 

Sherlock pulled out his instrument and began plucking at the strings threateningly.

Mycroft frowned and rubbed at his temple. "Must you always be so childish? People's lives are at stake."

"Aren't they always?"

Sherlock mentally added "headache-inducing" to the list of potential side effects of the drug. It was also entirely possible that dealing with him had produced the pain. Lestrade had once claimed he had to be a shareholder in some pharmaceutical company for all that Sherlock made people want to self-medicate. That had been one of his more productive days, in Sherlock’s opinion.

He watched his brother take another sip of tea. Mycroft rubbed at his temple again. 

"While I am aware that _you_ do not care about the general populace, I would have thought the good opinion of John-" 

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft at the abrupt stop, realizing he'd been caught gaging the amount of liquid still left in his brother's cup. It'd only been a quick glance, not even long enough for most people to have noticed.

Mycroft pursed his lips and very deliberately set his tea on the nearby table.

“What did you put in it?” Mycroft asked. 

The cold steel in his voice was _almost_ enough to make Sherlock regret his decision to use his brother in this experiment in lieu of John while his blogger was away at that conference about whatever doctors had conferences about. Sherlock had deleted the information within minutes of receiving it, but now wondered if it might not have been prudent to have stored it in the second cupboard of the downstairs study in his Mind Palace instead. John had been annoyed that he’d not taken an interest in his work and would now be less likely to take his side against Mycroft’s impending rage. Sherlock silently scolded himself for only having thought of testing the experimental mixture on his brother after Mycroft had conveniently invited himself into Sherlock’s flat, as was his MO, and not when Sherlock had had the opportunity to better plan the outcome to his satisfaction.

“Oh, nothing much. Just a little something I cooked up in the kitchen. An experimental drug created by a Mr. Dolberly, currently on trial for murder. Fairly certain it won’t cause irreparable damage,” Sherlock answered while continuing to pluck at his violin, unconcerned. 

“Fairly certain” was roughly the equivalent of “98.8% positive,” seeing as this was the fifth trial he’d personally conducted, albeit the first with a human, and none of his previous test subjects had suffered an unfortunate fate. If he were to add his own experiments to the notes kept by Mr. Dolberly, whom Sherlock believed to not be guilty of murder, Sherlock saw no need for alarm.

_“Sherlock!”_

Sherlock winced at the promised retribution in Mycroft’s tone, but otherwise didn’t worry overly much. Mycroft wouldn’t harm him. Make his life absolutely miserable for several months on end, yes, but never _harm_ him. They were equally sentimental in that way.

Mycroft’s motions were jerky and not at all full of his usual forced grace as he furiously attempted to remove his mobile from his pocket. Motor control was always the first to go with this formula.

Sherlock continued to watch as Mycroft quickly lost consciousness, his hand drifting down to rest against his stomach. He carefully catalogued every motion before and after his brother’s body went into hibernation, and it was only after he’d counted the seconds between the steady rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest and added the information to the chart in his Mind Palace that Sherlock finally put his violin to the side and rose from the chair. 

He placed two fingers on Mycroft’s neck and observed his heart rate for several minutes: fast due to the previous adrenaline, but creeping down to resting rate at an acceptable speed. Satisfied that he’d not managed to accidentally murder the British Government, Sherlock left his brother to retrieve his supply bag from his room. 

Sherlock removed a thermometer from the bag upon returning and swiftly placed it into Mycroft’s ear. His temperature was slightly elevated but nothing to be overly concerned with; Sherlock would continue to make note of it just in case. Mummy would be upset if Mycroft was unable to fulfill his promise to take her and Father to the Lion King musical.

Putting the device away, Sherlock was amused to note that a line of drool had started to leak out of the parted corner of Mycroft’s mouth. Still, it would be best not to upset his brother any more than he already had if he didn’t want Mycroft to suddenly “discover” he’d hacked MI5’s database and have him detained in some unknown location. Again.

Reaching into his brother’s pocket, he pulled out the black handkerchief embroidered with a yellow umbrella in the corner and wiped the spittle off. His hand stilled as it brushed against lips unintentionally. 

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from staring at spot that had made contact with his brother’s mouth. And then he couldn’t stop himself from staring at said mouth. He swallowed and all but shoved the handkerchief back into its proper place. He tilted Mycroft’s head slightly so that his lips sealed. He hopefully wouldn’t have to deal with a repeat of the incident.

Sherlock continued to monitor Mycroft’s vitals and check his body for any peculiarities. Each piece of data was carefully stored in his Mind Palace for later examination and write-up, and it was all very clinical and not inappropriate in the least. 

But his gaze kept returning to Mycroft’s mouth, as it was wont to do from time to time, only this time his brother wasn’t able to politely ignore his obvious interest. Sherlock could look to his heart’s content, or, rather, his cock’s, without fearing the disappointed sigh his brother would sometimes emit, as if Sherlock had failed some test. Sherlock could even _touch_ him if he so desired – Mycroft’s reprimanding, “Sherlock,” wouldn’t follow. 

Sherlock ran a hand down Mycroft’s arm in a way that wasn’t overly sexual but which wouldn’t have been permitted if the other man had been in the position to stop him. Mycroft had always had an uncanny ability to know the exact moment Sherlock had gone from wanting to be physically close to his big brother to wanting to be physically close to a potential sexual partner. It had probably helped that Sherlock rarely wanted the former any more. 

Sherlock was almost able to convince himself of the illogical possibility that his hand was tingling when he removed it from his brother’s person. He stared at it nonetheless, curling his fingers to his palm one by one and then back out again so he could repeat the procedure. 

Unbidden, a thought shot out of the dark part of his mind and made its way through the rest of his body like a lightning bolt, searing everything it touched until his entire being was focused on a single idea.

_He could get away with it._

At this moment, he could claim almost any action a part of his testing of Mr. Dolberly’s creation, such as, for example, removing Mycroft’s clothing to check for unusual skin pigmentation. In turn, almost any reaction on Mycroft’s part could be concluded as being an unintended side-effect of the drug. 

Even if Mycroft found his excuses dubious, his brother would have to accept that the possibility of truth did exist. Sherlock had done far stranger and far less socially acceptable things during his experiments, or so he’d been told. He rarely kept any but the most important “rules” in his memory; space in his Mind Palace was far too valuable to waste on such tedious bits of information. And who knew what side-effects the chemical compound might have on any particular human being, seeing as it’d never been put through clinical trials? Mycroft wouldn’t be able to prove anything was out of the ordinary simply because there was no established ordinary.

On the offhand Mycroft did accuse him, the likelihood of their confrontation making it passed the threshold of 221B was less than one-percent. As far as Sherlock had been able to ascertain over the years, Mycroft’s purpose in life was to be the British Government and keep his little brother safe, though not necessarily happy, whether Sherlock wanted him sticking his nose into his business or not. 

Letting him get away with it would keep him safe.

Sherlock had done worse things in his life. Probably.

Decision made, Sherlock reached underneath his brother and lifted him out of the chair bridal style. He walked down the hallway; the sofa was not nearly large enough for what he wanted to do. He deposited Mycroft on the bed when he reached his bedroom, glad he’d forgone attempting to grow fungi on it as he’d originally planned to while John was away and unable to shout at him in disapproval. Sherlock fluffed up one of his pillows and slipped it beneath Mycroft’s head. No need for him to be uncomfortable. 

Wasting no time, Sherlock parted Mycroft’s suit jacket and ran his hands down his brother’s sides. It was hardly the most exciting way to begin this encounter, but there was no need to rush. So long as Mycroft didn’t present himself as an anomaly, the drug wouldn’t leave his system until approximately ninety minutes hence. 

Arranging Mycroft’s legs so that they were a more appropriate distance apart, Sherlock glided his hands over his inner thighs, and then all the way down the insides of his legs to his ankles. He allowed his hands to roam over every centimeter – hips, hands, neck, calves… - until he could feel the throb of his own cock pressing against his now too-tight trousers. 

Sherlock undid the buttons of Mycroft’s waistcoat and shirt, splaying them so he could access his chest. He left the tie in the middle by itself. It made his brother look like an erotic dancer. The thought caused him to smirk. 

His attention shifted lower, and he reached down to slip off Mycroft’s shoes. His fingers trailed their way across the soles of his feet, and he briefly considered removing Mycroft’s socks as well but decided it would take time away from activities more interesting than touching his brother’s arches. Sherlock’s hands made their way back up to a more desired destination. He deftly undid the button and zipper in the way so that he could slide Mycroft’s trousers and pants down and off his legs.

Sherlock stared.

Logically, the sight wasn’t anything particularly awe-inspiring. Average looking male genitalia in the appropriate statistical size range with pubic hair that was the expected color and thickness. No interesting marks or signs of sexual disease. All-in-all, nothing Sherlock hadn’t already seen dozens of times on cadavers or during his case-related spying, and he wouldn’t have found the sight the least bit interesting if not for the fact that he was looking at _Mycroft’s_ genitalia.

He’d seen Mycroft naked before, but that had been many years ago, back when Mycroft hadn’t yet realized that Sherlock’s curious gaze had nothing to do with anatomy. Mycroft had been more careful once he’d connected the dots, an event which had occurred far too early in their relationship in Sherlock’s opinion. He cursed his younger self for his indiscretion. 

He cursed Mycroft for his stubborn propriety. 

Sherlock rubbed his aching cock through his trousers, though he was careful to stop before the sensation overwhelmed him. This would most likely be his only chance to ever enjoy his brother’s company in such a manner and it wouldn’t do to waste the opportunity. 

The detective contemplated where to begin for a moment before deciding on the obvious, and he reached out to run the tips of his fingers up the length of Mycroft’s cock. Sherlock’s breath quickened while Mycroft remained, unsurprisingly, unaffected. Near the tip, he tightened his hold and slid the foreskin down and then back up again, watching mesmerized as the head darted in and out of its sheath. Sherlock swallowed. 

He gently began to massage Mycroft’s nipples with his left hand, more for something to do with the appendage than any hope that it would help bring his brother to an excited state. The other man was in a drugged stupor and middle-aged at that. Direct stimulation would be necessary, though Mycroft’s lack of regular masturbation would help in the endeavor. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined Mycroft, not for the first time, sitting behind his desk at the Diogenes, pleasuring himself while reading over reports about some war in some country of which Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to remember the name. Mycroft had always been an excellent multi-tasker. Of course, the fantasy was ludicrous in its assumption that _Mycroft_ would be inappropriate enough to wank at work. Still, the daydream was one of Sherlock’s favorites.

His eyelids rose and Sherlock glanced down at the cock beneath his hand. It was just beginning to take notice of his ministrations, though it largely continued to be unimpressed. Sherlock frowned, wondering what his next step should be.

He could lubricate Mycroft and continue to masturbate him until he came all over himself. Perfect Mycroft covered in semen was a tempting thought, albeit a messy one. 

He’d have to clean him up afterwards, and remember to remove his tie out of the way beforehand, but that was hardly an arduous task. Sherlock even had some of the lubricant that his brother enjoyed, something he’d bought for his own self-pleasure after he’d discovered which type his brother preferred one evening while Mycroft had been away from his home. Mycroft wasn’t in a state to appreciate Sherlock’s choice of coating, but the detective assumed it to be a nice gesture nonetheless considering it was not something he regularly allowed himself to use. Sherlock hadn’t wanted the novelty of using the same lubricant as his brother to wear off and so it was seldom taken out of the drawer that housed it. 

Curious as to whether he’d be able to pick up the unique scent on his brother, Sherlock bent and ran his nose along his brother’s cock. He was disappointed to identify only soap, and even that was almost entirely hidden under the aroma that was _Mycroft._

He climbed onto the bed and buried his face into Mycroft’s pubic hair, memorizing the heady musk that was his brother. Sherlock zoned out for a moment as he slipped into his Mind Palace and quickly rushed the scent down to the section reserved for the other man – a replication of the home Mycroft had resided in for well over a decade. Satisfied that this memory was safe in his mind forever, Sherlock pulled himself back into the real world. He took another whiff just because he could.

Struck with an idea, Sherlock flicked his tongue out to taste Mycroft. It wasn’t exactly what he’d consider pleasant, but the fact that it was Mycroft and not anyone else was enough to make him want to do it again. 

Moving away from the base of the cock, Sherlock gave the tip a lick to see if there was any difference. Hmm. He swirled his tongue around the slit, and then into it. He couldn’t say that it was something he would enjoy for the act alone - his fantasies of oral sex having always revolved around Mycroft on his knees, fellating _him_ \- but it was something else his brother would never have allowed even if it’d been Sherlock’s dying request. Stealing Mycroft’s orgasm from him, forcing his big brother to lose control of himself with the power of his mouth alone - that was enough to leave Sherlock moaning in arousal. He continued to ignore the demands of his cock, no matter how insistent they might be, wanting to make Mycroft come before he did. 

While he could hardly be considered a squeamish individual, the detective was glad his brother took his personal hygiene so seriously, far more seriously than Sherlock took his own on some days, as he allowed his tongue to drift underneath Mycroft’s foreskin. Meanwhile, Sherlock began to knead Mycroft’s balls. 

Having no experience with a sexual partner, and therefore being forced to take an educated guess as to what another man might like based solely on his own preferences, Sherlock was relieved to see Mycroft’s cock harden up to an respectable erection under his attention. The desire to see Mycroft orgasm was so intense it all but burned itself through his veins, and he wasn’t certain what he would have done if his brother had remained only semi-erect.

Probably have shot him with a stimulant of some kind.

Sherlock pushed the cock as far into his mouth as his gag reflex would allow, which was disappointingly not far, and swirled his tongue around the now exposed glans. He would have to practice deep-throating his dildo in case the need for such a skill ever rose again, however unlikely that might be. He blinked as he wondered if it was possible to have one made to model Mycroft, and then cursed himself for never thinking of it before. Sherlock stored the idea away for a later time.

He pulled away and stuck three fingers into his mouth and then his thumb when the digits were wet enough. He returned to Mycroft’s cock and curled his fingers around any of the length he couldn’t fit into his mouth, relieved that Mycroft wasn’t large. 

It took longer than Sherlock’s pride would have liked, an unfortunate result of advanced age and inadequate experience he surmised, but eventually he managed to drag his brother to the crest of the mountain and then push him so he went tumbling down the other side. Hot liquid gushed into Sherlock’s mouth. He resisted the urge to swallow, instead continuing to milk Mycroft until he was positive nothing more was going to trickle out. Sherlock slid Mycroft’s cock out, keeping his lips tight so as not to lose any of the ejaculate. He sat up straight and rested himself just above his brother’s knees, careful to keep his weight off lest he leave any suspicious aches. 

He rolled the semen around his mouth with his tongue, carefully memorizing the taste just as he’d done with the scent. It was thick and sticky, more evidence of his long-held assumption that Mycroft was not particularly sexually active, even with himself. The taste was sweet, with just a hint of salt. The bitter undertone was hardly there at all. It forced Sherlock to admit, if only to himself and never to Mycroft, that his brother most likely had been sticking to his diet as he’d been claiming. 

Overall, it was more pleasant than certain websites had led him to believe. 

Sherlock got up from the bed to remove a sample jar from one of his drawers. He almost swallowed on accident as his cock reminded him of his own erection, previously pushed to the back of his mind but now a need too pressing to avoid any longer. Quickly, Sherlock deposited his prize in the jar and sealed it before hiding it underneath some pants in a different drawer. Mycroft would only find it if he could bring himself to browse through his little brother’s underthings and that was about as likely as Mycroft actually agreeing to have sex with Sherlock. 

His newly acquired treasure now safe, Sherlock unzipped his trousers and wiggled his hips out so they could fall to the floor like the useless things they were. His pants soon followed and Sherlock stood there with his ankles wrapped up in his clothing, not bothering to toe off his shoes and lift his feet out of them. He could see Mycroft well enough from where he was, less than a meter away, and that was all he needed to finish off this perfect occasion. 

He took his unbearably hard cock into his hand and was spurting all over his floor within a few strokes. The force of his delayed orgasm, no doubt increased in power by the excitement of the situation, was enough to make him sway unexpectedly and the detective soon found himself hitting the floor. He could feel his flush of arousal shift to one of humiliation, and it was all he could do not to thank some unnamed deity that Mycroft hadn’t been awake to see his failure. 

Exhausted, Sherlock closed his eyes, though he continued to tug on his cock idly. The idea of continuing to touch himself in Mycroft’s presence was tempting, but futile in the end. Sherlock doubted his ability to gain another erection after such an unusually strong ejaculation. As it was, he could barely keep his eyes open.

It took all of his willpower, but Sherlock managed to push himself up from the floor, wiping his semen-splattered hand on the carpet in the process. He bent down and pulled his clothing back up to his hips before arranging his still-softening cock into a comfortable position and zipping himself up. Sherlock examined his trousers with a critical eye but managed to find no traces of his activities on his person. It was surprisingly fortunate after he’d allowed his desire to overcome his logic and he’d spent himself right over the top of them. Mycroft would have questioned a change of clothes.

Walking back towards the dresser, Sherlock pulled out a bottle of shower gel he’d nicked from Mycroft’s house several months ago. It had been a fairly innocent theft; he’d run out of his own soap and hadn’t seen the point in buying more when was already in his brother’s house and Mycroft had some sitting in his bathroom. Mycroft had sent a minion over later that day with several bags full of basic supplies and a message inquiring as to whether or not Sherlock was an irresponsible child that needed an adult to buy his necessities. He’d stolen Mycroft’s toothpaste the next time he’d visited.

Slipping out of the door and into the bathroom, he lathered up a washcloth with the soap, grabbed a towel, and headed back. 

Moving his brother’s tie out of the way just in case, Sherlock carefully cleaned him between the legs and up through his pubic hair. It wouldn’t do for Mycroft to realize his cock smelled like another man’s saliva. Not that he was likely to examine himself that closely, but one could never be too careful when it came to a man that Sherlock, reluctantly and silently, admitted to being his intellectual superior. 

Once he’d finished cleaning, and then drying, Mycroft to his satisfaction, he tossed his supplies to the floor and regretfully began to re-dress his brother. The shirt and waistcoat were first. Mycroft guarded his upper half less heavily than he did his lower, and Sherlock had managed to see enough of Mycroft’s chest over the years to not miss it as much as he would what was below. When it came time to put Mycroft back into his pants, he had to resist the urge to give his brother’s cock one last swipe of his tongue. He didn’t want to negate all of his cleaning efforts.

Still tired, Sherlock picked him up as he had before but this time just barely made it to his destination before dropping Mycroft into the chair he’d been in earlier. He rearranged his brother to the position he’d fallen into when the drug had taken affect, and then arranged himself on the sofa.

Sherlock snuggled down into it. He continued to stare at the other man until he’d drifted off several minutes later into one of the most restful sleeps he’d had in years.

\-----------------

Sherlock woke over three hours later to the soft call of “You-who!” The chair Mycroft had inhabited was empty and had likely been for some time. Sherlock sighed and buried his face into the blanket wrapped around him, hoping that if he ignored Mrs. Hudson enough she might actually leave. For once. 

Panic hit him and he snapped up so fast he almost took his second tumble onto the floor for the day. 

Examining the blanket, he willed his heart to slow its frantic beating when he realized it was an extra from the hall closet and not one taken from his room, which still had traces of his semen spattered on the floor, among other evidence. Getting up, he breezed past Mrs. Hudson, ignoring her inquires, and checked that the towel and washcloth were where he’d left them. Sherlock was relieved to note that it didn’t look as if they’d been disturbed.

Relaxing, he headed back towards the sofa before changing his mind mid-stride and sitting on the chair Mycroft had occupied instead. It wasn’t warm anymore, confirming his estimate of his brother’s departure time, but he could still imagine. If nothing else, the events of the day had given Sherlock an untold amount of new fantasies.

Used to his peculiarities by now, Mrs. Hudson ignored his odd behavior and started prattling on about something or other. Sherlock wasn’t certain what she was saying through his filter but assumed it had something to do with consuming an amount of nutrients most likely pre-determined by John as she set a plate of food in front of him. Finding that he was hungry after what had transpired earlier, he ate the food without complaint, causing her to smile at him and say something about John being happy. 

That was good. Sherlock liked it when John was happy.

He reached for his mobile and was unsurprised to note that he had a new text from the doctor. What did startle him a little was the new voicemail from Mycroft. Body tense, Sherlock entered his password and held the phone up to his ear. The message was simple and to the point, a first for his brother.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice came through as hard and furious and _powerful_ all at once. 

It was a tone Sherlock had rarely ever had directed at himself, and never with such force. Despite his worry that the British Government was about to unleash something terribly unpleasant upon him, he couldn’t stop himself from leaning forwards in fascination. Mycroft snapped at people often enough, Sherlock in particular, but it took real effort to bring about such an _icy_ rage. The last time Sherlock had managed the feat had been during his drug addict days. 

“Don’t ever do that again.”

Putting the phone down, Sherlock placed his hands in front of his face, his fingertips braced against each other as he thought. 

He put Mrs. Hudson on complete mute and it wasn’t until he came back to reality the next morning that he noted she must have given up and left at some point. 

Sherlock frowned and glanced towards one of the many cameras Mycroft had had installed outside when he’d moved into the building. He’d spent over half a day in contemplation, and still didn’t know to which “that” his brother had been referring.

**Author's Note:**

> If you could let me know what you thought, that'd be awesome! Thanks!


End file.
